Eyes

I was honestly going to try to make the first few entries from my book be more light-hearted and whimsical. There are a couple of those, really. However, last night, I had one of those dreams that spans the entire night. Even after you wake up and fall back to sleep, it starts right were you left off. Without much detail, it was a dream that made me face the humanity and impending loss of my parents. Honestly, that thought terrifies me more than any other. I would rather face my own destruction than face this life without their constant presence. Consequently, death has been my companion throughout the day. The two entries that follow are two of the most impactful events of my life. The one in this entry, my greatest shame. The one in the next altered my faith and outlook of life irreversibly.
I wish I could say that every time I made a mistake throughout my life I did not know what I was doing or that it was simply a lapse in judgment. Sometimes, however, it has been due to a lack of my own moral fiber. Even so, there are very few moments in my life that I would actually go back and redo. I am a firm believer that everything that has ever happened to me, and every choice I have ever made have been essential to the recipe that makes up who I am today. While that person is far from perfect and has many flaws and idiosyncrasies, I like him, and I would miss him if he were someone else. It is not every brilliant and saintly moment in my life that makes me who I am, it is also the stupid, deliberately questionable, and less than honorable instances that give me spark and flavor—not to mention a few grains of wisdom. In fact, I can count the moments on fewer fingers than are on my left hand (there are just five, that part of me is normal—would I have kept such juicy details from you for this long?) that I would give anything to go back and change.
My grandfather (my dad’s dad) was the definition of the perfect grandparent. He adored me. He nearly worshiped me. He completely and utterly spoiled me. He completely overlooked my girly tendencies. He even walked in on me when I was nine or ten practicing making out, with my fan! and never said a word, although I am sure he spent countless hours in prayer for me afterwards.. (Don’t get stuck on trying to figure out why someone would practice kissing with a fan, you will get hung up on that mystery for eternity and come no closer to enlightenment. I said I had idiosyncrasies. Why are you judging? Grandpa didn’t!) Anything I wanted, he got for me. There was nothing too good for his cubby, red-headed grandson. He is the reason I love Christmas so much. For over a month before Christmas, Grandpa would start preparing (of course, so did Grandma and my dad and his brother—we are a very Christmas family). Everyone loved my Grandpa. He was a martyr for many people. Truth be told, people took advantage of his kindness and his generosity. There are worse faults to have.
Grandpa came down with cancer around the time I was ten years old, right around the time my little brother was born. He would battle it for two years. Chemotherapy, prayer, Chemotherapy, faith, Chemotherapy, believing in healing, Chemotherapy. His death when I was twelve would begin a period of thirteen years where six vital members of our family would die, and several other extraneous members as well. Death has become as familiar and well known as the face staring back at me in the mirror. If I had Death’s address, I would feel obliged to send him a Christmas card.
Near the end of his battle with the disease, my entire family went out of town to go to dinner. I was excited because Grandma and Grandma had gotten me a set of fuzzy animal watches I had been wanting. Pastel pink, blue, yellow, green fuzzy watches shaped as frogs, lions, flamingos. I know, I know. How did my family stay in denial about my sexuality for so long? We all sat down at long table on the second floor of the restaurant right next to a window looking out over the downtown. Grandpa sat by the window next to grandma and my dad’s younger brother, who was not married at the time. I sat at the head of the table. Mom and Dad sat on the opposite side of my grandparents, with my little brother in a highchair between them. We were nearly done with the meal. We had had appetizers, entrees, and desserts. Grandpa had already sent his credit card back with the server and we were just waiting for the receipt for him to sign. My Grandpa’s weight had greatly decreases over the past year or so. He went from a robust handsome older man (you should see pictures of him from World War II—Hot!) to a frail, weak, skeleton with thin, translucent skin as a covering. It hurt to look at him. I did not really know who this man was. It was not my Grandpa.
All of the sudden, Grandpa let out a strangled sound that was something between a belch and a gasp. His hands grasped the edge of the table as he lurched forward. A thin, watery stream of white vomit poured out of his mouth, down his face and pooled on his shirt and the table. Everyone else in the family stood as one in a near panic and reached out to him to help. Grandpa steadied himself with the table and weakly turned his head to the left towards me and looked into my eyes out of the corners of his. “I am so sorry.” It was a barely audible whisper. In fact, maybe he only mouthed the words to me.
Revulsion filled my face. I was completely disgusted and sickened. Don’t forget embarrassed. It was not intentional, just my honest, real emotion at the time. I looked back into his eyes with my upper lip pulled up into a grimace and my eyebrows knotted in scorn.
Hurt filled his eyes. He looked down at the table, shamed.
I am sure there had to be other events after this, but, if so, they have left my recollection. This is the last memory I have of my Grandpa and I before he finally died. There are moments and aspects in life that are burned into your mind for infinity, ones that will flash before you when you close your eyes. I will see the look in his eyes as clear as in the moment for the rest of my life. There is a world after this one that we go to when we die. The people who are already there can see us and they know our thoughts and feelings. I have spoken aloud how much I miss him and how much I love him so many times. I know that he is assured that the last emotion I showed him is not what is in my heart for him. If this is not how it is, if you have proof that this is not true or not how the world works, keep it to yourself. How can I face myself everyday, if he is not assured of my love for him? If the last sentiment his adored grandson gave to him was one of disgust?